Part Two
"Help me!"
Natasha jolted awake, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings and taking a moment to realise where she was. By all accounts, she had eventually dozed off curled up on the sofa of the guest quarters she had been assigned on Starbase 216, rather than the bed itself.
She couldn't remember precisely when she'd finally managed to fall asleep, or how long it had taken her, but at least she seemed to have made it through until dawn before her nightmares had woken her this time.
The same nightmare. The same dream. The same face.
She stood up, paced over to the replicator and thirstily gulped down a glass of water. As she calmed her breathing, she crossed over to the window that ran along the far wall of the room and tapped the controls to raise the blinds.
Her room was roughly halfway up the main dome of the base, giving her fairly unobstructed view out across the planet's surface. As she gazed out and took a few deep centring breaths, she saw the twin suns of the system casting a bright orange hue across the landscape.
The quarters themselves were entirely nondescript, but as luxurious as she had expected them to be. But even here, surrounded by all the conveniences that Starfleet had to offer, she could find no comfort.
Makes sense, she thought bitterly, after all, what do I have to be comfortable about?
She turned away from the view and looked over at the wardrobe in the corner of the room, where a freshly replicated uniform was hanging up, ready for her to attend her debriefing. The merest thought of the debrief sent a shudder down her spine. She still wasn't sure what she was even going to say. What could she say, after what she had done?
She took a couple of steps towards the uniform, studying the familiar blue undershirt and the lines of the grey and black jacket. As she reached out and felt the material, she idly wondered whether she still even respected it any more.
With another deep breath, she grabbed the outfit and walked over to the bathroom.
A few minutes later, fresh from the sonic shower, she stood in front of the room's full-length mirror, now dressed in that same uniform. She continued to study it, running her fingers down the seam of the jacket.
No, she decided. She definitely still respected the uniform. That definitely wasn't the issue here.
The issue was that she didn't respect herself wearing the uniform.
As she turned back to the view out of the window, the door chime rang out, startling her.
"Come in."
She heard the doors part behind her, and a familiar voice chime out.
"Hey, doc," Jirel said, "Did I ever tell you I have a real thing for women in uniform?"
Natasha turned back to see the Trill grinning back at her as he walked into her quarters, before he turned his attention to the fancy surroundings of the room. She suppressed a smile, but wasn't entirely happy with the unexpected distraction. She didn't want to deal with Jirel's space captain routine.
"This really isn't a good time-"
"Yeah, I know," he said as he idly paced around the room, "Don't worry, I won't stay long. Just wanted to see what these quarters were like. Very nice. Very...Starfleet."
She wasn't sure from his tone whether that was meant as an insult or not. She was pretty sure, though, that a bunk inspection wasn't the real reason he was here.
Things had gotten awkward between the two of them when Jirel had revealed his nascent feelings for her during their hunt for the Jewel of Soraxx, and she had hoped she had clarified the situation sufficiently to overcome that particular issue. But then she had seen his reaction to her ex-husband showing up, and she had started to have fresh doubts. She hoped she was wrong. Because she really didn't want to deal with Jirel's spurned lover routine.
"Nice view," the Trill added, casually gesturing out the window.
"Again, I honestly don't have time for...whatever this is," she said with a dismissive tone, "I really need to prepare for my debrief."
He nodded in understanding, but continued to breezily tour the room, leaving her feeling like she had no choice but to force the issue.
"Jirel," she sighed, "Tell me this isn't about Cameron."
"Who?"
"You've met," she said pointedly, before begrudgingly continuing, "But, fine, you really wanna do this? Yes, I'm married. Or I was married. We divorced, before the war. It...wasn't meant to be, I guess. And I haven't really seen him since. So, is that enough for you?"
Jirel scoffed slightly, doing his best to look offended. "Wh-? You think I came all this way to ask about that? For your information, I came to wish you good luck. Y'know, for the...debrief thingy. And, I'd also like you to note the amount of times we've both said the word 'debrief' and I haven't made a single inappropriate joke."
She studied his face again, which still appeared to be in laid back space captain mode. "Really? That's why you came over."
Under the most basic of scrutiny, the Trill's poker face collapsed. "Nah," he said with an apologetic shrug, "It was the husband thing."
"Ugh," she said with a roll of her eyes "Jirel, I have way too much on my mind right now to waste time with some insane, stupid jealousy thing-"
"Um, what? Jealousy? Who said anything about jealousy? Who's jealous?"
As she went to answer, the door chime rang out again. She closed her eyes in frustration.
"Come in!"
She opened her eyes as the doors parted again and Cameron walked through, not exactly formally dressed. He wore a tight gym top and shorts, drenched with sweat and clinging to his muscular physique. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the self-diagnosed jealousy-free Jirel trying to draw himself up into a bigger pose. And not entirely succeeding.
"Hey, Nat," Cameron smiled apologetically, "Sorry for the state I'm in, just finished the morning workout, and I wanted to catch you before you left."
"Don't apologise," she found herself saying before she realised it. When they had been together, it had been his scientific mind and easy-going character that had been most attractive to her. But the body had definitely helped.
He smiled knowingly at her comment, and she instantly felt her attraction diminish. She never liked that particular smile. The smile that was a combination of false modesty with a hint of smugness, one that gave away the fact that he knew exactly the effect he was having on her.
"Working out, huh?" the in no way jealous Jirel chimed in, "Hey, wanna race to the end of the corridor and back?"
Natasha looked over at the Trill in mild disbelief. Cameron, for his part, acknowledged the presence of him in the room with them for the first time. "Sorry," he offered with a friendly smile, "Who are you, exactly?"
"I'm-"
"Nobody," Natasha said quickly, mentally flinching at the hurt look this elicited from the jealousy-free Jirel, "I mean, not nobody-He's a friend. His ship rescued me."
The two men shook hands, the firm handshake continuing for some time. "Well, I guess I owe you one, whoever you are," Cameron said as he pumped the Trill's hand, "For bringing Nat back, just when I thought she was gone forever."
"Yeah," Jirel replied, ignoring the mounting pain in his wrist from the continuing handshake while still definitely not feeling any jealousy, "Aren't I the best."
Natasha watched as the two men continued to exchange the galaxy's longest, most passive aggressive handshake for several more seconds. Eventually, when it looked like they were going to end up fusing at the wrist, she stepped in.
"Ok, so-Stop that," she grabbed their hands and separated them, "Again, both of you, I really need to be getting on."
"Of course," Cameron nodded, "But, hey, I came by to ask if you wanted dinner? Tonight? Officers' club?"
She studied his face, but there was no trace of the superior smile any more.
"Nothing weird, I promise. Just two people who have a lot of history, and haven't seen each other in a long time having a fancy dinner and catching up. Hmm?"
Jirel, who as he himself had already made abundantly clear, was definitely not jealous of the situation that was unfolding in front of him, even surprised himself with his next comment. Especially given how he wasn't jealous in the slightest.
"Hey, if you're...y'know, if you need dinner, or whatever. You can have-I mean, we can do dinner on the Bounty?"
This time, her glance at the Trill ratcheted up from mild to severe disbelief. "On your ship with the broken replicator?"
"Your ship only has one replicator?" Cameron chimed in with clear amusement.
"Ah, joke's on you, friend," Jirel replied smugly, "Because, actually, as Natasha just pointed out, my ship currently has no replicators. So…"
He tailed off, all of a sudden aware that he wasn't entirely sure what his point was going to be. Mercifully for all involved, the awkward silence that descended on the trio was broken by Natasha's combadge chirping into life.
"Commander Bari to Lieutenant Kinsen," an unfamiliar but oddly calming male voice rang out, "I've been asked to carry out your debriefing. If you'd be available-"
"Yes, Commander," she replied quickly, making for the door, "I'm available right now."
In a strange way, she almost felt like she owed Jirel for this one. In the midst of all that awkwardness and passive aggression, and even though she still had no idea what she was going to say, suddenly her uniform and her official duties seemed a whole lot less terrifying. Or, at the very least, if the alternative was to stick around in her current surroundings, she would rather take the debriefing.
She stepped through the door and exited, leaving Jirel and Cameron looking at each other uncertainly.
"I mean," Jirel managed eventually, "We're getting it fixed…"
'*'*'
'*'*'
The pain assaulted his senses before he had a chance to even open his eyes.
Piercing shards of fire burned into his skull with an intensity that caused him to visibly flinch and squeeze his eyes even more tightly closed. Even as he considered trying to move, he was forced to hold back a violent wave of nausea that coursed through his body.
This, Sunek was forced to admit to himself, is a bitch of a hangover.
He tentatively opened his eyes and looked around, trying to get his bearings. He could immediately see that he was in a strange room.
He lay sprawled on the sofa in a small living area, a replicator recessed in the wall to his right and a table and chairs over to the other side. Aside from a couple of carefully cultivated plants by the table, there was no obvious sign of anyone living here. But as he took in the decor, he realised that he was definitely in the quarters of a Starfleet officer.
Maybe I got lucky, he thought to himself, despite the fact that he could barely remember anything about the previous night after he and Ensigns D'Amato and Taris had switched from cocktails to shots. Although, if that was the case, one vital memory he was missing was who he had got lucky with.
He forced himself up into a sitting position and rubbed his hands through his messy hair. To his left, he heard a door open.
"Morning, spaceman."
He turned around to see the blue-skinned Ensign Taris, clad in a fresh Starfleet uniform, walking into the room. Despite his weakened state, he immediately tried a winning grin. "So," he managed, gesturing at her and then back at himself, "I guess we must've-"
He paused, swallowing quickly to control a sudden rush of nausea. Even with Sunek's usual amount of misplaced confidence, he realised it probably wasn't a good look.
"If you're gonna throw up, at least try to aim for the bucket."
This was a new voice. He turned back and saw D'Amato strolling out of a door on the other side of the room, wearing a similarly fresh uniform. Bunkmates, Sunek couldn't help but smile to himself, nice.
"Don't think I'll be needing that," he replied, trying to maintain as much dignity as he could.
"Hah," Taris snorted, as she grabbed her breakfast from the replicator, "You definitely needed it last night."
D'Amato let out a chuckle as she joined her bunkmate at the table, scoffing down a bowl of muesli. Sunek forced himself to stand and shuffle over to them, his mind still painfully blank. "Hell of a night," he offered, grasping for something else to say before simply adding, "Hell. Of. A. Night."
The two ensigns shared a knowing glance. Taris shook her head as D'Amato turned back to him. "You can't remember anything about last night, can you?"
"How much is there for me to remember?" he ventured with a slight leer, glancing from one woman to the other.
"Ok, no," Taris jumped in with a roll of her eyes, "Before you start thinking...that, let me help you out with the headlines: You drank yourself under the table back at the bar, to the point that you couldn't even remember the name of your ship-"
"Never mind where it was parked," D'Amato added, as Sunek's leer slowly vanished.
"So, we took pity on you," Taris continued, "Got you past starbase security even as you tried to start a sing-a-long of your favourite Catullan drinking ballads and carried you all the way back here, only for you to thank us by throwing up for most of the night and then collapsing on the sofa."
"It was really hot," D'Amato added with a smirk.
Not for the first time in his life, and certainly not for the last, Sunek inwardly cursed the fact that all of the rich tapestry of emotions he had chosen to embrace as a member of the V'tosh ka'tur included the concept of shame. "Oh," he managed, his voice sounding as small as he suddenly felt.
The two ensigns chuckled again and continued to eat their breakfast, as Sunek suppressed another stab of pain in his head. "Feeling rough, I take it?" D'Amato smiled.
"Like I've got a wild sehlat stamping on my head," he grimaced, "Why are you two so chipper?"
Taris stood and returned her empty plate to the replicator. "Are you kidding? I felt worse than you when I woke up."
Sunek looked baffled. D'Amato smiled and gestured to her blue undershirt. "Perk of working in the medical wing," she explained, "I fix us up with a neat little hypospray. Part anti-inflammatory, part mood stabiliser, part antiemetic. The Galaxy-class starship of hangover cures. Got introduced to it by a bunkmate back at the Academy."
"Fascinating," Sunek managed sarcastically, as he rubbed his head, "Wouldn't have any of that going spare, would you?"
"Sorry," the young ensign grinned, a touch of wickedness in her eyes, "Starfleet only."
"Now," Taris added, gesturing to the door, "We've got duty shifts to get to, so you need to scoot."
Sunek, now feeling a whole range of emotions, none of them especially good, gently hobbled over to the door. "Just one thing," he said, forcing his cheeky side back to the surface with all his willpower.
"What?"
The Vulcan gestured to the three of them and grinned. "This totally counts, right? If my friends ask what happened?"
Feeling slightly better already, Sunek chuckled to himself as he ducked out of the door, moments before an empty muesli bowl smashed against the wall where he had been standing.
'*'*'
'*'*'
Natasha sat and waited, idly tapping her foot on the floor.
She was on her own in a large meeting room somewhere in the bowels of this particular dome of Starbase 216, where she had been led a few minutes earlier by a very polite Bolian ensign.
The room was dominated by a large rectangular table, which was surrounded on all sides by high-backed chairs. The only accoutrement on the polished surface of the table was a small cup of coffee the same ensign had provided for her before he had scuttled off. And since the Bolian had left, she had been alone. With her thoughts. Which wasn't a particularly good place for her to be these days.
As she sipped her drink, trying to ignore the reflection of her uniform in the table, she wondered if this was all part of the debrief. Making her sweat before the questions began. She forced herself to calm down. This was a briefing, she reminded herself, not an interrogation. She hadn't done anything wrong.
No, she corrected herself, as the blood-soaked face of the young ensign flashed into her mind for a moment, that wasn't true either.
In the months since the destruction of the Navajo, she had been given plenty of time to think about that one officer she had left behind. She knew there was nothing she could have done for him. You didn't need years of medical training to know that he had been moments from death.
But she equally knew that wasn't the point. Even without the Hippocratic Oath she had sworn to uphold, her basic Starfleet training should have told her to at least try and get the mortally wounded man into the escape pod with her. Instead, she had deserted him. She had left him to die. She had run away, she had run all the way here. And she was still running.
Her dark thoughts were interrupted as the meeting room door opened. A single figure entered, clutching a padd.
"Lieutenant Kinsen," the man said with a formal tone, "Apologies for keeping you waiting."
He was a tall, rangy humanoid, with long jet black hair tied back in a ponytail. He walked smartly over to the table and sat down opposite her, placing the padd on the table. Three pips on his collar belied his rank, and his deep black eyes belied the fact that he was Betazoid. She immediately felt uncomfortable under the gaze of a telepath.
"Part-Betazoid," he said, without prompting, causing her to stifle a gasp, "Sorry, I felt your mood change. Don't worry, I'm just here to debrief you, not read your mind."
She managed a slight smile and shifted in her seat, not feeling reassurred.
"I'm Commander Javin Bari," he continued, "And the purpose of this meeting is to establish as many details as we can about the Navajo. We had no idea there would even be a survivor to talk to, and in lieu of the black box, any further details you can provide might help bring closure to the crew's families."
She nodded, trying to block out any thoughts about the missing black box, which she knew had been picked up by a group of rogue Jem'Hadar. Probably best not to get into all that, she told herself. "I understand, sir," she replied, "I'll tell you everything I can."
If the empath on the other side of the table realised she was lying, his face didn't betray it.
"Ok then," he smiled warmly, gesturing to her, "How about you start at the beginning."
She suddenly felt excessively warm, stifling in the layers of her uniform. She licked her lips, and started to talk.
"We were in the Kesmet sector, near Cardassian space. Captain D'Vora's orders were to rendezvous with the fifth fleet. It was oddly quiet, given the last few weeks we'd had. The Navajo had been part of a tactical wing making runs at weakened Dominion supply lines after the Battle of Ricktor Prime."
"I see," Bari nodded, checking his padd, "Forgive me, but you know a surprising amount of tactical information for a junior medical officer."
She stared blankly down at the table, her eyes drawn to the reflection of the Starfleet insignia on her chest. "When you're the one that treats the wounded in a war," she replied quietly, "You start to make it your business to know when they're going to arrive."
Bari nodded in understanding and gestured for her to continue. She took a sip of her coffee and calmed her breathing.
"The Jem'Hadar ships must have come out of nowhere," she half-whispered as she recalled the fateful moments, "One minute, I was returning to my quarters after my shift, the next the ship was being torn apart around me. Bulkheads collapsing, conduits exploding...I don't even think the bridge crew had time to raise the shields."
She paused and took a couple more deep breaths. Bari remained silent, waiting for her.
"I tried to get to sickbay," she said eventually, "But there was no way through. Main power went out almost immediately. The turbolifts were offline, and it would have taken hours to get there through the Jeffries tubes."
Bari picked up the padd and made a note of something. She suppressed a flinch and ran a finger under the collar of her undershirt, reminding herself that part-Betazoids could only read emotions, not thoughts. Assuming he's telling the truth about his heritage, she thought wryly.
"So I tried to do what I could. I walked the deck, looking for casualties, and...then Captain D'Vora ordered us to abandon ship. It can't have been more than a couple of minutes since the attack had begun-"
She stopped and tried to compose herself. Bari set the padd down and focused on her with an understanding look.
"And so you made it to an escape pod," he said gently.
"Yes," she said, her voice now hoarse. She forced the ensign's face out of her head.
"And...nobody else made it?"
She looked down at the table, her eyes again found the reflection of her uniform. Her stifling, suffocating uniform. "I don't know if any more pods escaped," she said eventually, "But the Navajo was destroyed moments after my pod-I mean, I barely made it out of the explosion in time. I was lucky, I guess."
Because I ran, she thought to herself, while everyone else stayed. She dismissed the thought as fast as she could. Bari cocked his head slightly, and she couldn't help but wonder if she'd dismissed it fast enough.
"Well," he said eventually, "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'm sure this must have been difficult for you."
She didn't look up from the table, but she nodded. Despite everything else she was feeling, she felt herself relaxing slightly as they reached the end of the questions.
"One final thing," Bari added, tensing her up all over again, "Your escape pod would have had room for at least, what, a dozen crewmen? I appreciate the state the ship must have been in, there was no time for any sort of organised evacuation, but...were there no other crew members in the immediate vicinity?"
The question cut through her like a phaser blast. Time felt like it had stopped. She kept staring at her reflection, the pips on her collar, the combadge on her chest. She felt sick.
As the silence lingered, she forced herself to look back up, at the inky black pupils of the Starfleet commander opposite her. A senior officer, asking for the truth.
"No, sir," she replied.
Bari stared at her for a few more moments, then noted something on the padd again. She felt her stomach constrict into a knot. Part of her willed herself to retract her answer. To finally stop running and tell the truth.
Before she could act, she heard the door to the meeting room open. She didn't look over, but did wonder whether it was a security detail, one that Bari had just sent for via the padd. But whoever it was, Bari looked surprised to see them. He stood up from the table and snapped to attention. Natasha turned and was equally surprised to see Admiral Jenner approaching them. She quickly stood up as well.
"At ease, both of you," the admiral muttered, "Commander Bari, is the debrief complete?"
Even with the additional powers of deduction granted by his heritage, Bari was still confused by this question. "Um, yes, sir," he affirmed, "I was just finishing up."
"Very good," Jenner nodded, "I relieve you."
Bari didn't move, still confused. Natasha felt equally perplexed.
"Is there a problem, Commander?" Jenner continued, as he sat down in one of the available chairs.
"No, sir. It's just-"
"Good. Have your summary on my desk by 1400 hours."
After another long confused pause, Bari acquiesced, bowing slightly and exiting the room. As the doors closed, Jenner turned to Natasha and gestured for her to retake her seat. She did so, slightly uncertainly.
"Lieutenant," Jenner grunted, "Just so you know, the following conversation is not part of your debrief. Furthermore, this entire conversation will be completely off the record. Do you understand?"
Natasha swallowed hard. She had no idea where the admiral was going with this. "Yes, sir," she managed, "I understand."
"Good."
Jenner leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together in front of him on the table, and lowered his voice to a dark whisper.
"I need to ask you some questions," he continued, "About Jirel Vincent."
'*'*'
'*'*'
Klath walked into the familiar confines of the bar he and Sunek had been in the night before. Though this time he wasn't looking for relaxation. He was looking for combat.
The Klingon picked his way through the few Kraterites that made up the afternoon's patrons and headed straight for the bar area itself.
Denella had been able to get him the information he needed from the starbase's records, and he had spent most of the day so far poring over them. He had been looking for anything out of the ordinary in the manifest of transports, starships and Kraterite vessels that had arrived in orbit or requested landing clearance over the last few days.
He knew that anyone looking for him could just as easily got to the planet by booking passage on a freighter, or stowing away on a passenger transport and keeping their name off the official records, but he was betting that whomever was after him would need more of a base of operations, as well as a quick and easy escape route.
And eventually, he had found a lead. A single Klingon shuttle that had been tracked to a landing side near the local Kraterite town. The shuttle's clearances had checked out, so nobody at the starbase or within the civilian Kraterite authorities had questioned it. And as far as Klath was concerned, it was exactly what he had been expecting to find. Now, he just needed some more details of who he might be facing.
And so, after managing to sneak away from the Bounty while Denella was distracted by the ongoing repairs, he had made a beeline for the same bar. He had already asked her to do too much, and didn't want his friends getting any more involved with this matter.
He reached the bar area and gestured to one of the unblinking Kraterite bar staff, who scuttled over with the uncomfortable gait that seemed endemic to their species. Klath stopped the Kraterite before they could pass him a drinks menu.
"I wish to access the security records of this establishment," he stated flatly.
It was hard to tell how the Kraterite took this, given how difficult it was to read their unconventional features at the best of times, but it chittered slightly before shaking its head. Klath scowled and leaned in closer, speaking slightly louder in a somewhat prehistoric attempt to overcome their communication issue.
"Perhaps there is someone else I can speak to," he pressed, "Where is the owner?"
The Kraterite chittered some more, glancing from side to side at some of the other staff nearby, but didn't appear any more amenable to helping him. Instead, it tried again to push the drinks menu into his hands. Klath's scowl deepened, realising that he was getting nowhere.
A more skilled or patient negotiator might have persisted with the softly-softly approach, or perhaps tried harder to find a way around his current communication problem. A truly committed diplomat might even have accepted the offer to order a drink and spent more time studying the Kraterites to gain a deeper understanding of their wider customs and mannerisms.
But Klath wasn't an especially skilled or patient negotiator, and he certainly wasn't a diplomat. So he opted for a different - but in his opinion, equally effective - means of progressing past their current impasse.
He turned and walked a few paces over to a nearby table, where a couple of Kraterites were quietly chirping to each other and enjoying a couple of disconcertingly-hued drinks.
He turned back to the barman, to ensure that he still had the Kraterite's attention, then lifted the table up and overturned it with a single movement. The two glasses smashed on the hard flooring, and the pair of Kraterites, finding their conversation so rudely interrupted, jumped back in shock and clicked angrily in Klath's direction.
As the bar staff started to rush around in panic behind him, the Klingon calmly walked over to the next table and repeated the process. Another set of glasses went tumbling, another group of Kraterites had their afternoon ruined.
Klath started to feel that he was making real progress.
After the fourth upturned table, and with the bar now in a state of mild chaos in the face of his ongoing impromptu redecoration of the premises, he heard a louder and more angry clicking sound from behind him. He turned to find himself looking at a new Kraterite, this one substantially larger than the others, wielding a small, stubby wooden club in one of its hands and clicking its mandibles together with aggression.
Because of his decision not to quietly observe the Kraterites, he couldn't tell for sure, but Klath suspected this was the owner, unsurprisingly irate at the damage being caused to his establishment and eager to intimidate the unruly patron into moving on.
Except, as the Kraterite uncertainly stood its ground and looked up at the much taller Klingon, it wasn't clear who was doing the intimidating.
Klath's scowl transformed into a satisfied smile as he drew his bat'leth and squared up to the bat-wielding figure in front of him. The weapon in the Kraterite's hand started to shake slightly.
"I wish to access the security records of this establishment," Klath stated again.
A few minutes later, Klath had been brusquely led into the back office of the establishment, and was sat in front of a rudimentary computer console, with full access to the bar's security records.
Diplomacy, he mused to himself, is overrated.
As the Kraterite owner watched on nervously from the corner of the room, he scanned through the recorded footage from the night before. It didn't take him long to locate the footage of himself with the mysterious woman, and despite his unfamiliarity with the controls, he was soon able to complete a scan of her movements inside the premises throughout the night. It helped that she didn't seem to have spent all that much time in the bar at all, as he had suspected.
If she was an assassin, spending too long around one of her targets would have attracted too much suspicion. Even without Klath's sixth sense picking up on him being watched. Instead, she had spent just long enough to locate him, deliver her deadly addition to his drink, and leave. Unfortunately, that didn't give him much to go on, but as he scoured the rest of the footage, something caught his eye.
As the screen reached the point in the night when he had smacked the drink away from Ensign Taris, on the other side of the room, a new figure had entered. One who departed as soon as he saw what Klath was doing. A Klingon male.
He did his best to zoom in on the figure, and even with the rudimentary equipment available, he could see the scar running down the Klingon's face. He emitted a low growl of recognition, as he downloaded the files to a small padd and stood up, turning back to the Kraterite in the corner.
"Thank you," he boomed, "You have been most helpful."
He stalked out of the back office, leaving the Kraterite to chitter to itself.
The Kraterite language was one of the most complicated in the galaxy for humanoids to understand, indeed negotiations over the planet's entry into the Federation had taken longer than any other in history not because of any specific requests or particular points of contention, but simply because it had taken that long to complete and verify the nuance of the translations for all relevant formal documents.
Still, the Kraterite bar owner's current chittering was more readily translatable, as it watched the looming Klingon stalk off and considered the minor devastation he had left behind.
It roughly translated as: I'm getting too old for this.
'*'*'
'*'*'
Denella was still having trouble concentrating on the repairs.
Not because of any further unwanted attention from Lieutenant Kapadia. In fact, since her choice comments to him the night before, he seemed to be making a particular effort to stay out of her way. Aside from a formal couple of check-ins to keep track of their respective work schedules, she had barely crossed paths with the Starfleet man all day.
Instead, today she had something different to worry about. It hadn't taken her long to discover that Klath had sneaked away from the ship at some point during the day without warning, and that now he was on the planet somewhere facing an apparent assassin by himself.
A warrior does not let a friend face danger alone indeed, she scoffed to herself.
It wasn't the first time he'd done something like this. And when Klath had his mind set on something becoming a solo mission for him alone, he usually made sure that it was. But that didn't mean she wasn't worried. And it felt wrong to just be casually carrying on with her meticulous repair work when he was out there somewhere.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The voice caught her by surprise, and snapped her back to reality. She whirled around to see Jirel standing a few steps away from where she was working on the port side of the Bounty's hull. She also realised she could smell a faint burning smell, but she kept her focus on the Trill.
"Why are you creeping up on people like that?" she shot back.
"Um, I asked first," he replied, gesturing behind her, "Further question, why the hell are you burning a hole through the ship?"
She turned around to discover the source of the burning smell. As she had been daydreaming about her own worries, it seemed that she had indeed managed to burn a deep additional gouge into the ship's scarred hull with the laser cutter she was wielding.
In shock, she flicked the cutter off, said a silent apology to her poor ship, and turned back to Jirel. "I'm not-! I mean, as it turns out, I am doing that," she conceded, "It's just...I'm worried about him."
"Yeah, me too," Jirel nodded in understanding, "But Natasha says they're divorced, so-"
"Hold on," Denella said, thoroughly confused, "We might be worried about two different people here. I'm talking about Klath?"
"Oh, yeah," Jirel replied, not entirely convincingly, "Me too?"
The Orion woman studied the Trill for a moment. She was glad that he had finally been here to help for most of the day, but it was clear that he wasn't exactly on top of his game. He'd been working slowly and ponderously, as if he was being sidetracked by something playing on his mind as well. The way he was now squirming rather backed that idea up.
"But, um, yeah, Klath, mmhmm," Jirel said in quick succession, before forcing himself to calm down, "I mean, you know him though, right? He goes through these little Rambo phases every now and again."
Without the dubious benefits of orphan Jirel's upbringing back in Colorado, Denella didn't have enough of a grasp on ancient Earth culture to understand that reference, but she managed a nod. "I know. But this time it feels...different. This isn't just some little fracas or a bat'leth duel. Someone actually tried to poison him."
Jirel nodded, having heard all about Klath's experience in the bar.
"It's just-Could you try talking to Admiral Jenner?" she persisted, "I dunno, you've got this whole understanding, so maybe he can spare some security officers to go track him down?"
He maintained a reasonable poker face this time, not wanting to reveal to his engineer how badly his latest interaction with the admiral had gone. How stretched that particular understanding was starting to feel. "Sure," he managed eventually, "I guess I can try and-"
Before he could complete his sentence, they heard footsteps approaching. They turned in unison to see a trio of Starfleet security officers marching across the landing pad towards them. None of them were the same as the officers in his and Natasha's earlier escort, but they all had their weapons raised in a similar manner.
Jirel looked back at Denella, wondering if even his misplaced confidence could stretch as far as making this out to be more than a coincidence.
"Um," he offered to her weakly, "Surprise…?"
She didn't look convinced. As the officers reached them, the leader of the trio, a stout human woman with short cropped blonde hair and an expression that suggested only business, surveyed the pair of them. Jirel, eager to defuse the tension, stepped forward with his hands up, assuming that this was another welcoming committee from the admiral.
"Ok, fine," he said with a grin, "Take me to your leader. And again, no need for the phasers."
The lead officer fixed him with a withering look, before gesturing to the Orion woman standing next to him. "These are for her."
Feeling oddly hurt again, though for the opposite reason to the last security detail he had come up against, he turned to Denella. "Um, what the hell-?"
"If you'll come with me ma'am," the officer interrupted, gesturing the grease-streaked Orion back the way they had come.
"Me?" Denella half-scoffed, "What have I done to deserve all this?"
"You are charged with violation of Federation property, unauthorised access of Starfleet records and deliberate misuse of a starbase data stream uplink."
Jirel looked back at Denella in shock, as the officers walked off, taking the Orion woman with them and leaving Jirel alone. Wondering how exactly he was going to spin this one with the admiral.
'*'*'
'*'*'
The Officers' club was every bit as luxurious as Natasha had been expecting.
High up on A Deck in one of the secondary modules of the starbase, right at the top of the dome and completely encased in transparent aluminium, the view was astonishing whichever way you looked. Especially as the twin suns were now setting on the horizon, casting warming red and yellow glows across the landscape which merged into a beautiful spectrum of orange hues.
And that was before you got to the food, a full a la carte menu prepared not in a replicator, but by a team of chefs pulled from the four corners of the quadrant. For a mere lieutenant like Natasha, it was a privileged experience indeed.
Judging by Cameron's knowing smile as she tucked into her Tarkelean tea-infused souffle with Thalian chocolate dipping sauce, she suspected that he knew that all too well.
"Good, right?" he said, gesturing to her half-eaten dessert with a fork loaded down with a generous helping of his own Mapa bread and butter pudding.
"I know this word has been misused for centuries," she said, her mouth still full, "But I'm happy to confirm that this is literally the best thing I've eaten all year."
He chuckled as she finished her mouthful and took a sip of the sweet wine that their Benzite sommelier had explained at great length was the ideal pairing for her particular choice of dessert.
She didn't want to admit as much to her ex-husband, but she had needed something like this. Not just the meal, and not necessarily the company, but a genuine moment of indulgence and pleasure, in amongst all of her angst and worry.
The questions that the admiral had asked her after her debriefing still preoccupied her, even while enjoying her meal. They had all been about Jirel, but none of them had been about anything specific, or anything important as far as she could tell. Simply questions about his ship, his crew, and his general frame of mind as she had seen it during their time together.
If she thought that his off the record grilling of her was going to be the start of a thrilling unofficial black ops investigation into some sort of smuggling ring Jirel was suspected of being a part of, she ended up being very disappointed.
Across the table from her, Cameron finished his own mouthful of food and toyed with the remaining dessert in front of him for a moment. "It really has been good to see you, Nat," he said, "I know things...didn't exactly work out for us-"
"Yeah, I was meaning to ask, how is Lieutenant Ramirez?"
For the first time all evening, Cameron's warm demeanour dropped momentarily, replaced by a grimace and a slight look of shame. Natasha didn't necessarily want to dwell on that aspect of the end of their marriage, and the role that a certain junior lieutenant who had served under Cameron onboard the USS Ticonderoga had played in it, but she did take some satisfaction for having briefly knocked him for six.
"Fair enough, I deserved that," he nodded, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth with a napkin, "It's just that...when I heard what happened to the Navajo, I really thought you were gone."
It was her turn to suppress a grimace, simultaneously forcing the face of the ensign to the back of her mind. She put her spoon down, despite there still being plenty of her delicious dessert remaining. She didn't feel hungry any more. "I don't like to think about that. About what happened."
He nodded in understanding, as she drained her wine glass and composed herself. She felt like a traitor all over again, sitting in such lavish surroundings, eating the feast that had been presented to her, when so many more deserving officers had perished out there.
"Truth is," she admitted, gesturing down to her uniform, "I don't like thinking about any of this any more. The wars, the killing, the…"
She paused. The ensign's face was going nowhere yet.
On the other side of the table, Cameron considered her words as he took a sip from his own wine glass.
"Listen," he said eventually, "Things are gonna change. We've come through a lot these last few years, but I was in a briefing just this morning where a half a dozen admirals talked at length about the dawn of a new age of exploration for the fleet."
Natasha suppressed a snort of derision. "Yeah, they always say that. And then, the next thing you know, there's a coup on Romulus, or Vulcan explodes, or something-"
"Nothing like that's gonna happen, trust me."
She looked back at him, seeing something kind in his eyes that triggered memories of a time before she felt like this. Before the war and the Navajo, before Kesmet IV and the ensign in the corridor, before even Lieutenant Ramirez. "Why do you care this much about what I think?" she asked softly.
"Well, I was gonna save this for the digestifs. But I've just been assigned to a new posting. USS Copernicus. Nebula-class."
"Congratulations?"
"Let me finish," he smiled patiently, "Our first mission is a six month mapping survey in the Gamma Quadrant. And I know what you're gonna say, but it's safe now. The Founders are no longer a threat, the war's over. Besides, we're not interested in Dominion space. We're headed to the unknown, unexplored space, where no one has gone before. Remember that?"
"Rings a bell."
"Thought it might. And...it just so happens that the Copernicus still has half a dozen positions to fill in her medical staff."
He gestured at her, and the blue undershirt she was wearing. For a moment, she was lost for words. And for a moment, she wondered whether there really was a future for her here, a future where she still wore this uniform.
"Cameron," she sighed eventually, "If this is your way of trying to make up for-"
"It's not. I promise."
She looked over at him uncertainly. He pushed his plate away and wrung his hands together. "Look, I screwed up, I know that. And I know there's no way I can ever fix that, nor should there be. But I also know how good a doctor you are, and after what you've been through, you deserve this, Nat."
His words were clearly meant as a comfort. He had no way of knowing how hollow they sounded to her. She looked back down at the unfinished plate of food in front of her, trying to keep the darker thoughts from bubbling up all over again.
"I'm not sure I do," she said eventually.
"Come on," he pressed, "I know you can be modest about your work. Too modest, if you ask me."
She stared into the remains of her souffle, trying to picture herself back onboard a starship, in her uniform, alongside her fellow officers.
"I mean, what else would you do?" he pressed, "You gonna go back to Earth? You'll go stir crazy and you know it. Or, what, were you planning on bunking up with that Trill space cadet?"
Whatever semblance of a spell he was starting to cast over her was instantly broken. She looked back up at him, noticing the dismissive tone he had used and the familiar superior smile that was creeping through on the corners of his mouth. The one she really hated.
"Don't even dare do that," she snapped, "This isn't about me 'bunking up' with anyone, Cameron, for god's sake."
He wiped the attitude from his face, clearly seeing his mistake. She stood up and straightened her uniform.
"I'm sorry, Nat. I just meant-"
"I know exactly what you meant. And I've dealt with a lot of stupid crap from that Trill space cadet this last day or so. But I thought you knew better than that. Apparently not."
She felt the eyes of several other diners in the room on her, and elected not to make any more of a scene. Instead, she turned and made for the exit, swerving around the perplexed Benzite sommelier as she did so. Cameron considered calling out. But he didn't want to make a scene either. He'd given her the offer, that was enough for now. He reluctantly returned to his dessert.
Natasha kept walking. She couldn't think about the offer, she had too much other stuff to think about. She thought about the admiral's questions about Jirel. She thought about Commander Bari's questions about the last moments of the Navajo. Most of all, she thought about the face of the ensign in the corridor. The one she had left behind.
She looked down at her uniform, and felt numb.
'*'*'
'*'*'
The heavy stone struck the edge of the blade, sending a shower of sparks out into the night.
Klath perched calmly on a rock, overlooking the main Kraterite township below, and ran the smooth grey stone in his hand down the edge of his bat'leth, carefully sharpening his favourite weapon.
Darkness had well and truly descended by this point, and in the absence of any more technological solution, he had hastily set up a campfire using branches from the surrounding trees to keep the worst of the cold away. He knew that he might be on his personal mission for some time, and this had seemed as good a place to set up camp as any.
On the other side of the crackling flames, she started to come around where she sat awkwardly propped up on a rock, her hands a feet tied up. She saw the Klingon at work on his bladed weapon, but elected not to cry out. Although she felt groggy, she tried to piece together where she was and how she had got there from what little she could remember.
As far as she could recall, she had been making her way back to Kolar's shuttle after spending the evening indulging herself around the Kraterite township, trying to make the most of being stuck here until her employer had completed his plan.
With Kolar still withholding payment of the full amount of latinum they had discussed, she couldn't afford passage away from the planet. She wasn't even sure if she'd ever see the full payment now, given her failure, but either way she was stuck having to wait for Kolar to be ready to leave to get anywhere, regardless of whether he was going to pay her in full or not.
Even though she was sure there was no affection intended, Kolar had at least warned her about straying too far and spending too much time in the open, at least until he told her that it was safe to do so. He seemed to know enough about their final target to know that she shouldn't take any chances with him. But she ignored him.
And so she had spent the evening out and about in the township, trying to find some sort of entertainment on a planet with only a Federation starbase and an indiginous people that spoke a virtually incomprehensible insectoid language to choose from.
She had failed.
And then, she remembered. As she had been making her way back down a mostly empty street on the outskirts of the township, ready for another uncomfortable night of fitful sleep on the deck of Kolar's shuttle, the attack had come. She hadn't seen where it had come from. She hadn't even realised that there was anyone following her. But she had felt something heavy hit the back of her head.
As she watched Klath continue to sharpen his blade, she noted the blunt side of the bat'leth in his hands, and the specific mystery of what she had been struck by seemed to be resolved.
On the other side of the fire, Klath didn't look up. But he sensed that she had stirred.
"You were sloppy," he grunted as he worked on the blade.
She still didn't say anything, instead working on gently testing the material binding her hands together for any sign of weaknesses.
"For an assassin, your actions were too obvious," he continued, striking the stone across the blade again, "The clothing, the immediate focus on the drinks, the...suggestive behaviour."
"Worked well enough on the others," she replied eventually.
That was enough for Klath to stop his work and look over at her, the flickering firelight accentuating the deep scowl on his face. "The crew of the Grontar," he replied. It was a statement, not a question.
"Sounds like you've been expecting this."
Klath looked down into the flames. The reflection of the fire flickered in his eyes as he recalled something from deep within his memory. He felt the rush of shame at the same time. The shame that he had kept buried inside him for many years. The shame from the Sons of Marlek.
"All of them?" he asked eventually, focusing back on his prisoner.
She nodded back, having given up on trying to find a weakness in the ropes. Klath growled quietly and stood up, gripping the freshly sharpened bat'leth in his hand and stepping around the fire to where she sat. As he got nearer, she instinctively squirmed to try and get away, her eyes entirely focused on the weapon in his hands.
"I should kill you," he said as he walked.
She didn't reply.
He stood next to her and looked her over, still not sure of her species. As he remained frozen in place, she tensed up further, expecting the worst. He moved around behind her and brought the blade into position. She closed her eyes.
He swung the weapon down with practiced precision, knowing exactly how to maneuver the swing to finish the job in a single blow.
She gasped as she felt the bonds on her arms split apart. He walked back around to her front and crouched down until they were eye to eye.
"Go," he muttered.
She remained where she was, her shoulders still tense, sitting up against the rock, unsure whether or not this was some sort of trick.
"Go back to your Klingon master," he continued, more forcefully, "And take a message to him."
She watched on in confusion, as he stood up and slowly paced back over to the other side of the fire.
"Tell him that if he wishes to kill me, as he has killed the others from the Grontar, then he must do it himself. No more hiding behind assassins and poisons."
He spat the words out. She flinched slightly, but nodded.
"Tell him that when he is ready, I will be waiting."
He reached the rock where he had been sitting and perched back on it. She hurriedly grappled with the bonds around her feet, untying them and unsteadily standing. Klath watched as she turned and made off into the night. He conceded to himself that there was a possibility that she might just try to escape from the planet by other means without delivering his message, but he was fairly certain she was still waiting on a payment.
And so she would go back to the scarred Klingon. And he would come to Klath.
After a moment of further contemplation, and after subduing a further bout of shame, he returned to the task of sharpening the blade of his weapon. Preparing himself for battle.